Flares
Wandering in sepulchral silence among the artifacts
dredged up from the ocean floor after almost a hundred years
dinner plates, a diamond ring
a pair of patent leather shoes, a deck chair
jeweled combs that once sparkled in a young woman’s hair
under the electric light of the chandeliers
a violin in its case, a porcelain vase
a china doll, another child’s toy
a menu listing the last meal that many would enjoy
a wall upon which were the names
of every person known to have been on board
the exceedingly rich and the profoundly poor
who with high hopes sold all they had
to purchase their third class ticket
Though they were the majority they weren’t a priority
buried as if they were already dead below deck
kept strictly separate, forbidden to be seen
by those whose lives were considered more worthy
by merit of their money
How little has changed in over a century
I entered the last room of the exhibit
my breath creating clouds in the refrigerated air
as I stood before a wall of ice the same temperature
as the salt water that surrounded them that night
twenty seven degrees fahrenheit
My palm went numb when placed upon it
a sensation similar to that of my soul
after a life spent sailing my own stormy seas
I communed with the spirits of the crew
commiserating with those who had frantically fired flares
in a futile search for a savior to come to the rescue
I do the same from my own sinking ship
with no more success
No one sees or no one cares
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